Political Suicide
by Don'tEvenHaveAGun
Summary: He's hated many, mostly the Nordic culture that center themselves and pride themselves of a God that is not custom to his own. A filthy lot, with a crud accent that no one could take serious if the conversation of politics and the science behind the matter came to play.


**Political Suicide:**

_**Prologue.**_

He's hated many, mostly the Nordic culture that center themselves and pride themselves of a God that is not custom to his own. A filthy lot, with a crud accent that no one could take serious if the conversation of politics and the science behind the matter came to play.

**Except for one. **

"You girl. Yes, you!" Ondolemar rounded the corner, both of his guards following in suit to take a capture look of the typical, fair-haired female Nord. She was cradling a book that she wrapped in satin, spun a velvet-red that clashed with her snow-textured complexion.

"Aye, somethin' bothering ye' captain?" Twas that accent that heated him most upon their first encounter, though he took no heed to her dawning, iceberg hues when they fell upon his mellowed ones. She held the book close to her chest, her lips falling flat when she took a look around the commotion she somehow stirred.

"That book. Certainly it's not yours, nor the satin wrapped around the frame. Give it here, or I swear to have you hauled a way. Nords' do not need such thing, surprising your kind keeps these around. _Books_, probably a door- stopper in your country." He held out his hand, awaiting the light book to come across his gloved hands. It never happened.

"Nay," The Nordic female kept a low smile even on the account of disrespect, "I believe ye' are making a mistake. I'm rather fluent in wordplay. Must be my accent that throws ye' kind off? Not my fault considering I hail from Windhelm; been there since I was a small lass mind you."

"I didn't ask about your heritage, or where pigs breed. I simply asked for your book, now hand it over _ma'm_." And so she did. He took no heed to her sly grin, even to when he uncovered the hard-framed book that riddled the letters in gold, engraved _The Lusty Argonian Maid. _

Ondelemar was completely dumbfounded on her composer, and the unearthing of her private matters. He was even more flabbergasted when she quoted a few lines to embarrass him, and throw how wrong he was into his face. "I must finish my cleaning, sir. The mistress will have my head if I do not!" Ondolemar knew the guards from behind him held something sly behind his back, a quick whimper of a laugh when this Nord finished off, "Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my spear."

She jerked the book away from his hands. As prim and proper as he was raised, he still couldn't help but to remember that he had to close his mouth when he caught it agape in her actions. "I dare say, I apologize for my actions captain and if I rose suspension in the Jarl's court." She bid him farewell, with a low bow and a laugh.

**Perhaps that one day he hated her most.**

He began to see more of her, and gossip among the common folk her name was Sigrunn; he found it distasteful, and it reminded him of some horrid fruit that he may have came across on his travels. Then he learned of her meaning or what he's heard it meant- something that had to do with knowledge.

Knowledge? No- not this Nord. A curved woman who would be considered plumpish or displeasing upon the eyes of Mer. Barbaric in her humor, a fumbling moron that could let alone read simple text from- whatever she enjoyed; the sex-craved novel would not be considered real literature, for only love survives in books.

His parents didn't love each other. Mother stayed in one wing in the house, while Father stayed in the other and with his mistress that Ondolemar would have to call her an 'aunt' oddly she'd eat dinner and afternoon meals with his mother. He learned directly from his parents that love is just an emotion so that idiots have something to actually look forward to for living.

Sigrunn believed in other things, stupid things that made him cringe just thinking about it. Though, she never told him directly- ever since their downfall with her embarrassing him; He'd listen in to her idle talk with the Court Wizard that mostly ended up yelling at her, but then swoon as she spoke of the pretty things in life. Bluntly, she was an enigma, a curious case of a shipwreck.

"Calcelmo, have you talked to that lovely lass yet? I know you've had ye' eye on her. I can tell. You can say I have a knack for telling the obvious." Sigrunn's hood was down this time, revealing a river of golden curls that draped over her dress. Her knee's were huddled close to her chest, while her chin rested on her knees. "Are ye' nervous to talk to her? Simply tell me, there are no ears present."

"You must be forgetting my nephew." Calcelmo cocked an eye towards his nephew.

Aicantar looked up from his scribbled notes, eyeing Sigrunn from over scattered papers. "Excuse me, Uncle? Something the matter?" Though the Altmer kept his glare on Sigrunn for a few moments more than she felt comfortable too.

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong. What have you honestly been doing this past hour? Drawings again? I hope not. Have you decoded the makeup of that spider? Did you honestly find all the missing pieces?"

Ondolemar knew what the old court mage meant by his nephews' _'odd drawings' _Absentmindedly, Aicantar has been listening too much to Sigrunn's ideas' about the sexual nature of one that should feel towards another. Clearly, the young elf fed on her imagination of the tongue, and the daunting low tones she used that mixed together with her foreign ways. He'd fancied her fair hair, that dress that hung to her curves, and the rarity of pink lips, and blue eyes. Ondolemar could keep record on how many times he's witnessed the strange looks, and fumbled conversations he had with her.

_Well, isn't this interesting. _

There was a web of a plan to be wove. To learn of customs of this love, this dance of suicide that some may, or may not accept. Political Suicide, and it was known so commonly and deliciously used to ruin the weak mindset. To break the heart of Aicantar, to bed a whore. Simply if he broke her heart fast enough he wouldn't have too bed a beast in the first place, and both parties will learn a lesson in dabbling in affairs instead of work.

"I say, yes you. Sigrunn, correct?" Ondolemar flagged Sigrunn down. And he began to walk closer to the trio that sat among stone and notes.

Sigrunn moved against the edge of her stone seat, her legs unfolding from her as her bare feet touched the cobblestone floor. Her fingertips ran down an old lavender stem, and she'd smile oddly on the account of his bluntness. "Aye, that be me, captain, " Ondolemar was already annoyed by her tone, "What can I do ye' for? Perhaps you wish to borrow a book from me? Or possibly tell some tales ye' self? Remember I do love detail." He'd tried his best not to frown over her mocking tone; that off little genetic makeup that he wanted to kill off.

"No," the Justiciar crossed his arms behind his back, keeping his posture erect as if his life depended on it, "I heard you are offering lessons in Alchemy. Frankly, I heard you were the best and possibly the most pleasant to receive such schooling."

Sigrunn snapped the lavender stem into two, then placed it in her front apron pocket, "Aye, I give lessons. Surprising a haughty Thalmor is asking for my help? For the love of Mara," She'd snicker, though it sounded more like a twisted cackle, " What do ye' lads' think? Should I help the pompous Mer? Forgive me, I'm just a Talos worshiping, Nord." He could have booked her on a confession, though she was draping with sarcasm.

She jumped up on Calcelmo's word, "Sigrunn, the man did ask for help. Might as well not mock the fellow. Manners, child."

She waved off the old man's words and slipped on her leather shoes, "Fine. Since ye' asked, I'd be more than happy to help- no wait! Honored." And she'd tucked one hand underneath her bosom, bowing to where her cleavage spilled out almost. _Uncivilized harpy. _


End file.
